It stood there against the lush green garden,
Red, sparkling, untouched.
Swaying with every cool breeze,
playing in the early morning rays.

Struck by its beauty,
his desire was now only to possess,
to have it in his fingers,
to caress it whenever he liked.

Little did he know it would wither to death.
Petal after petal drooping in pain,
now they were a gory red, wrinkles creeping in; Brittle;
crumbling at his loving  feather touch.

Oh, how he cried,
How he regretted having plucked,

His love  it’s death cause
Was it love?
Rajneesh Parmar
BHU

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